


Check Please!

by Karios



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bad Puns, Disabled Character, Gen, Restaurants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 22:22:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14411769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karios/pseuds/Karios
Summary: The staff of the Freakshow Diner crack jokes, work up a sweat, and make a mean pot pie-- a staff report by Ari Sears.





	Check Please!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prinzenhasserin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/gifts).



> Who requested a restaurant owned by someone who looks a bit alien and dramatic servers.
> 
> I put a bit of a spin on it. I sincerely hope it works for you, Prinz. Thank you for hosting this whacky fun fest.
> 
> Also many, many thanks to mlraven for the beta.

Despite the online reviews and the shocker of a name, I'm still a little taken aback by the meeting the owner, who introduces himself simply as ‘Erik.’ I thank him for the interview, convinced this will be the most interesting entry the school newspaper’s Restaurant of the Week column has ever seen. But instead of diving into questions, I find myself watching the proprietor. He pauses in the middle of cleaning glassware, to mix a milkshake for an old man who seems to find none of it nearly as interesting as I do. By the time he uses a rubber band to attach a spatula to his nub of a left hand, and sets to flipping hamburgers, I'm utterly transfixed.

“Ari? I thought you had questions?” he prompts, and I blush.

“I did, I mean I do.” I start with all the boring ones. Whether business doing alright— it is; their type of fare— diner classics; and signature dishes, he picks three— their martian meatloaf plate, Jupiter storm chili, and the strawberry rhubarb pie, which hasn't yet gotten an otherworldly name.

“What's with the theme?” I ask finally, gesturing vaguely to the decor. The walls are painted to resemble the interior of a circus tent with garish vibrant stripes, while the ceiling is galactic. Planets with whispy rings, craggy rocks and a slew of stars dot purple-black paint. 

“I don't know. Thought it suited me,” he says, and I feel like I’m being put on, as his features twist into what I think was supposed to be a smile, though the scars pull at his skin in strange directions. I glance down for a second, intent on writing something, and when I look up again, Erik is smoothing his facial prosthesis into place. 

“It hurts, you know,” he informs me, his voice now even more muffled behind the layers of silicone or plastic, or whatever the hell those things are made out of. My gut twists with fresh guilt. 

“I'm sorry, I didn't-” I start to say, when I'm interrupted by a chuckle from the hostess stand.

“He’s being a diva, dear, ignore him,” advises the hostess, a man with wart-covered skin that does look like a bit like bark, if you squint. I swivel on my stool to get a better look. His name-tag reads ‘Hi, I'm Oak.’

“Oi,” protests his boss, prosthetic mask once again absent. “She's interviewing me.”

“Only because you own the place, Erik,” chimes in a female voice from somewhere behind me. I bend over backwards to catch a glimpse of a woman with almost impossibly thick hair covering her face down into a full beard. Her bright fingernails, shaped into sharp points, stand out as she sets down a customer’s tuna salad sandwich and glass of iced tea. 

“Damn right I do, Lupe.”

“Did you even get the girl anything to drink, Riki? How's she gonna have a good word to say about this place if she doesn't try anything? What you want, hon?”

It takes me a moment to realize she's talking to me. “I guess I could go for a Coke,” I say.

The server disappears in the back for a moment and emerges with a tall, frosty cola with a long sparkly straw. It complements the cosmic ceiling. I lean over to reach for my purse but Lupita stops me with a shake of her head. “It’s on me.” Her rich black hair, while unruly, shines up close, like her smile.

“Thank you.”

“Don't mention it,” she says, before bustling off to take another table’s order. I sit and sip my beverage, watching a busboy with fused fingers makes quick work of clearing a table. The old man with the milkshake motions me over.

Erik’s attention has gone to manning the grill once more so I make my way over and slide into the booth across from the older gentleman, still pulling on the dregs of his milkshake. “You won't get much out of Matthew. He’s too private.” I cock my head.

“Matthew?”

“Oh right, Erik,” he corrected. “That's his middle name, you know, and I'm old enough to forget. I'm Wilfred, by the way.” He puts out a hand to shake and I do.

“I'm Ari.”

“It’s a pleasure, ma’am.” He tips an imaginary hat in my direction, then lowers his voice. “After the accident, well not so much an accident, there were people going around throwing acids on other people. Matthew, er Erik, managed to get one hand in front of his eyes but his nose and mouth weren't so lucky.

I winced, just picturing it.

“Doc, no pity, that's rule number one,” chastized Oak, before filling in the blanks. “He goes by Erik because he thinks his prosthesis makes him look like that dude from Phantom of the Opera. We all decided on the puns.”

Lupita added, “Come for the puns and freaks. Stay for the pot pie.” 

They all laughed and the tension seemed to break.

“What's the busboy called then?”

Oak answered me. “He's Crawford.”

That one took me a minute. “Oh, like crawdad.”

“You got it, Miss Ari.”

“Whole thing’s silly if you ask me,” complained Wilfred.

“Yeah, well, no one did ask, you old coot,” shot back Lupita, as she tore off the check and set it on the table. Despite the argument, they seemed happy.

“Don't mind them,” confirmed Oak helpfully. “They’ve had this argument at least once a week for the better part of ten years.”

Erik had moved in to take the unoccupied portion of bench next to me, now that what customers they had were settled.

“I was a cook when it happened, probably about your age. What are ya, nineteen, twenty?”

I nodded my assent. 

“I was green, new I mean, not actually that color.”

This time, I laughed. I was starting to see how the puns had come about.

“No one wants an inexperienced cook, not one with a half a face and learning to do everything one handed. And if they were willing to give me a shot I knew that they’d look at me everyday like they done me some kind of favor.”

Around the room the others murmured various ‘here, here's.

Crawford had even emerged from the back room. “You put in the same day’s work as any other guy, but a normal boss wants to say different. The jokes just make us part of the theme.” 

Erik grumbled. “I'm plenty normal, you lunkhead. What Craw means is, no one can get to you with names if you’ve already outdone them.”

I jotted down notes as quickly as I could. “I have one more question.”

Several pairs of eyes caught mine. 

“Can I get a pot pie? I’d like to stay awhile.”

**Author's Note:**

> Oak has Epidermodysplasia verruciformis, and Lupita has Congenital Hypertrichosis, both are a result of my love of weird medical documentaries.
> 
> Erik is modeled after an old friend, as is Crawford.


End file.
